


On the Edge of Oblivion

by Yusagi



Category: Naruto
Genre: Adrenaline, Adrenaline kink, Age Difference, Angst, Angst and Porn, Canon Compliant, Dark, Depressing, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hand Jobs, Mild Kink, Missing Scene, Sexual Content, implied obirin, like canon, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 11:23:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7713145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yusagi/pseuds/Yusagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They were a pair of the walking dead, sitting on the edge of the end of the world, and it didn’t seem to matter to her anymore."</p>
<p>While waiting for Naruto to deal with Kaguya, Obito and Sakura face the certainty of death and the fear of failure in their own ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Edge of Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a random drabble.

_This wasn’t according to plan_.

She’s not really sure when _anything_ has been part of the plan since Madara suddenly got a living body and started ruining everything, but…this definitely wasn’t one of those times where things went close to the plans they made.

It wasn’t a thing she’d have envisioned earlier that night, being trapped in a dimension with _Obito Uchiha_ , dependent on each other to make sure the world didn’t go to any more hell than it already had. _To get Sasuke back_.

Which of the two was really the more important and which was more unbelievable…she was too tired, too emotionally _ruined_ to decide. A dead man stood beside her. He should have been dead. She wasn’t even a sensory ninja, and she could see the tiny flicker of chakra Naruto had somehow imparted to him to revive him was…more of a re-animation than revival.

She couldn’t save him, no more than she could will the past Hokage back to life fully. Perhaps if she knew Lady Chiyo’s jutsu…but the woman had taken her secrets to her grave, and if Sakura had known them, she couldn’t have used it on him anyway. Not now.

He collapsed down on the ground next to her as heavily as her own limbs felt. She stared at him because there was nothing else in the dimension to look at. Trying to figure out the strange and alien terrain of his alternate dimension only caused her head to hurt more: this she’d realized the last time she’d been trapped here.

“Out there…you can tell what’s happening?”

She sounded so much more tired than she expected.

He glanced toward her with barely more movement than flicking two eyes (one eye used to be Kakashi’s. He looked at her with _Kakashi’s eye_ and yet it wasn’t, it had always been his and she’d never known.) in her direction. “…To an extent.”

_An extent_?

“…I can sense the chakra outside.” He spoke with a voice heavy with resignation, the knowledge of inevitable death looming over him. “When the battle is finished, I’ll know.”

…But there was no way to know if Kaguya was still there. They’d have to wait until they judged it a safe amount of time, and even then they might encounter Kaguya. It was unavoidable danger. To save Sasuke, to save the world, they had to risk facing death. But then…they were already committed to giving everything they had.

Everything they had was all there was left to give. It was the only way either of them could help, anymore.

It was frustrating to be so helpless to help the ones she was supposed to.

She watched him a moment, as he sat, lost in whatever thoughts of his own he had. It was hard to see him, breathing, moving, living. She’d seen him dead already, she _knew_ he was dead, and she knew, looking at him, he would be again. Not long now. As a medic, it hurt her, somewhere deep down and uncontrollable, to see him and know she could do nothing to extend the fuse he was given, not even a little. He’d burn out when he ran out of the gifted chakra, and that was that. It didn’t matter if it was impossible, a part of her felt like an insufficient medic not to know how to fix him.

She shifted where she sat and scooted next to him. The proximity was…something. She couldn’t decide what it was, but it was…it was also a thing she never imagined she’d willingly initiate. After a moment, she spoke, by way of explanation. “We should be close enough to jump together. In case she’s capable of doing…what Madara did.”

No one else had his eyes, so no one ought to be able to reach them now, but…Kaguya jumped dimensions anyway, right? And they’d used _hers_ , so…if she thought to come after them, it was possible she might. If they were too far apart to leave together, then…what would she do? Stranded in a dimension alone? She wouldn’t be able to save Sasuke at all.

After a moment, she couldn’t help speaking again. “…I can’t help you.” She was a medic. She felt obligated to say it, even if…until very recently, barely more than moments, they were enemies.

His expression was…surprised. Almost amused, she thought, if either one of them had the emotional or mental fortitude to be amused. “That…was never expected.” His voice was so soft, she couldn’t hope to read the emotion or intent of it, only the words themselves. “…There’s no telling if she can. The limits of her abilities…I can only try to guess.” He was silent a moment, a pause too heavy and tired to be a true ‘pause’. “It’s not the way I’d prefer to fight. Not knowing the limit.”

It wasn’t the way she liked to fight, either. She felt like dry humor was the only way she could stay sane in the situation, but…when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. It wasn’t a good sign for her sanity. It wasn’t helped by the conflict she felt, looking at him. The way her consciousness and her feelings were torn between the medic’s need to _save him_ , and the knowledge that he was (used to be? When did she decide he was an ally and not an enemy? He helped her save Naruto, he saved her life, he was helping her save Sasuke, helping to save the world) and enemy, the one who started all this, the one who caused so many deaths.

She should be happy to know he would die soon and nothing could save him. She didn’t know what she was. She hated it. More, she hated feeling helpless, impatient to save Sasuke, to do her part to help the people who were important to her.

Eventually she spoke just to distract herself, and she should have known what it would be before she spoke. “…Do you hurt?”

He shrugged slightly, and then winced. The movement was sharper in her vision than the shrug itself. It said everything before he spoke. “…An understatement, I think. It’s dulled by now.” An expression that was probably supposed to be reassuring if it weren’t worn by a ghost passed over his face. “I won’t die. Not until I can help Naruto. For now…we are…”

They knew well it wasn’t true safety. She wondered what that felt like for him, after so long being the only one to access this place.

She missed whatever it was, the first part of what he said. “…lasting effects to what you’ve used?”

She thought he was just trying to hold conversation to distract himself. So was she, she couldn’t object. Her words were still absent, almost automatic. “My chakra will recover eventually.” She almost smiled. Scoffed, softly. “…If I live long enough.”

There was no humor in her laughter, and for a moment, she didn’t even realize she _had_ started laughing after her last comment. She didn’t think it was humorous at all, though, only a release of frustration and stress, an edge of hysteria that kept her from breaking too soon.

It distracted her from the war in her head over the chance to alleviate his suffering with chakra. That much she knew she could do. But…she had so little chakra, she’d burned up almost everything that wasn’t stored away in her three year seal now, and they both knew she needed every drop of chakra she had. Just in case. She couldn’t help him, not at all. It burned something inside her, her compassion, her medical training, to look at him and _not help_.

She closed her eyes a moment, steeled herself, forced the idea out of her mind. At some point, in her spark of bold determination, her hand landed on his knee. She refused to look up at him as she spoke. “Where…does it hurt most? I can’t spare any chakra. But–I can help with the pain some. No chakra used.”

He was quiet, and she wondered if it was him trying to locate where the pain was, or something else. “…Ah. That would be…everywhere. It’s overloaded at the moment.” Everything, burning from the inside out with the spark of life Naruto gave him, the price of whatever Naruto did. She didn’t need to ask him, she knew. She could see the signs, could imagine what it felt like. “…If it helps, then…”

She wondered, vaguely, if she was supposed to be helping him, or herself. She decided it didn’t matter, and not to dwell on it any longer. She gave another dry laugh that rattled in her throat like straw. It felt like that time, when he was their enemy and all they had to worry about was preventing the eye of the moon plan, was years ago now. Ages. When she looked at his face, it felt like only moments.

So she refused to. She was far too tired.

Her movements…felt hollow. Automatic. Empty. She worked on instinct because her mind was too crowded with confusion and pain and frustration, grief and confusion, worry and…and _terror_ , to worry about thinking. She didn’t have the time to spare on that sort of thing now.

Her hand pressed against his stomach; fingers pushing into the well-formed, slightly contracted muscles there, and felt as they contracted further, jumped slightly and relaxed. “Your core muscles…might help some. Does it?”

She tried to ignore the sound that came from his throat, lower than she was used to, and deep with the strain and fatigue she felt. The laugh that followed…that was as painful and forced as hers had felt. He didn’t speak in response, though, and he didn’t need to. She knew the muscles of the human body well enough, knew the effect it would have to press there and relax the knots the battle had built up there.

She knew what else it caused, could see it in the corner of her eye. And that…too, that too was perfectly natural. Whether a human instinct or not (she’d been a shinobi too long now, she no longer knew) they’d had it beaten into their heads over their time in the academy with the archaic teachings that lingered. _Don’t die without children_. _Don’t let your family down. Don’t let your clan vanish._ She wasn’t exactly thinking of children, not now, not here, but the programmed demand that she _not die without trying_ was buried deep in her subconscious. pounded unspoken in her blood.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t the certainty of death but the fear of it that mixed with her youthful hormones, and seeing the one she loved again after so long, and confused her body. She…didn’t know. It didn’t seem like the time for analysis, and she didn’t see the point. Didn’t pay it any mind. Her vision stayed fixed on the movement of her own hand, because she didn’t know anything else she could watch. She didn’t really think there _was_ a thing she could watch, other than her hand and the rise and fall of his stomach underneath her touch. She didn’t know what was happening outside, couldn’t see, couldn’t bear to think of it. She couldn’t look at him and see the lines of pain etched too deeply into his scars to heal, and she couldn’t look at his face and see the covered ones lined in tents from a war where the only victor was death.

It did no good to think of it, because she’d never be able to work with him to do what they had to if she saw the one who killed so many of her friends and allies, and she could never forgive herself if she saw him as anyone else.

Thinking that sort of thing didn’t help. So she stared at her hand instead and focused on the movement of muscles beneath it, and the slight warmth (not warm enough) against her skin. She worked slowly not because she was trying to whittle away time, but because every motion seemed so wooden and methodical that slow and deliberate was the only way to make sense of it.

She started just under his ribs, and it barely qualified to be his stomach, but it was a source of tightly knotted muscles, a place where proper pressure would help the flow of blood and of chakra. If she had the technique of the Hyuuga, maybe even without chakra herself she could help him better than her own hands could…but that too was a pointless observation. There were no Hyuuga in this world. Wherever they were.

She made very little effort to control the movement of her hands, sliding easily over knots of muscle and smooth skin, pressing fingers here, grinding palm there, careful and as thorough as she was in all her efforts to loosen what she found, and bring some small respite and comfort to a body already too taxed and shattered for even Naruto and his miraculous techniques to heal. Far beyond her ability to heal.

She watched in silence as her slim fingers traveled down his abdomen, stretching out as far as necessary, pressing tight in an almost fist at other times, applying light pressure sometimes, pressing harder against different points, and tracked only the slight reactions of his body to tell her when she’d succeeded at any given time.

By the time her fingertip pressed against the dip of his belly button his breathing had become audible in the overwhelming silence of the endless dimension, and followed a deliberately slow rhythm. She refused to look up and examine the expression of control he must have worn, because she didn’t know what she’d say or do if she saw it. Instead, she simply watched her own hand, observed it as if it were something separate from her, beyond her control like the rest of the world was, found it as impossible to stop as the time that marched past them where they sat.

She didn’t quite realize when the smooth glide of skin transformed into coarse fabric, simply that at a certain moment it _was_. She thought, somewhere, distantly that she should regain control and stop herself. She should prevent herself from stepping too far with a dying ally she barely knew the name of (yet she knew, if she were to live long enough to ever forget names in her life, his would be among the last). The thought never quite broke into her conscious mind.

They were a pair of the walking dead, sitting on the edge of the end of the world, and it didn’t seem to matter to her anymore. If she forced herself to care, then she’d force herself to care about everything, and then she’d surely break herself before she could do what needed to be done. She dipped her head slightly as she watched her fingers flex, and squeezed her hand around the fabric that almost smoothed between the force of him pressing upward and her pressing down against her palm.

The noise that came from him that time was certainly a groan if the first wasn’t, and she saw his fingers twitch against the strange, not-stone of the bizarre dimension they were in. She almost allowed herself to be derailed by the question of why imaginary (alternate) stone would be cool to the touch.

He was warmer than stone, and so she shifted slightly, scooted closer until their hips touched. She didn’t find any comfort in the contact, but it was warmer than the air, and she was still deeply chilled from the frozen dimension they’d been in. He was still but for the harsh breaths he took whenever her hand would tighten. She would have wondered what he was thinking, but she realized she didn’t know him well enough at all.

Eventually, she wasn’t sure when, she tugged down the hem of dark pants so coarse and unremarkable they were better characterized as rags than clothes. It wasn’t really a conscious effort, though she was aware of her decision to do so, but it seemed the appropriate reaction to the situation she’d found herself in.

Staring down at him, she felt something inside her tighten immediately, heard her heartbeat speed up in the blood rushing in her ears, and sensed the immediate thrill of sexuality. She knew the feeling, even if it wasn’t one she summoned often, the heady almost sort of dizziness, the way that her focus narrowed that much more once her body was aware of her intentions..it was a better distraction than willful blankness. And perhaps it was an option she should have began with, because the resulting endorphins and relaxation that would come from it would help to soothe the aches and distract him from the pain, and the narrowed vision would distract their minds from working out the many ways their plans could fall apart in their hands.

And, when done efficiently, she would be able to replenish some chakra of his in exchange for minimal stamina. With their chakra reserves, it would be nothing more than a droplet in an ocean…but perhaps that one drop might make a difference after all. It might provide him with one more moment of life with which to use on something important.

Slim fingers pressed against the pale length that almost managed to glow in the eery half-light of the dimension, and she felt his blood pulse beneath the pad of a finger. She realized with a dull sort of clarity she might have previously thought to be a paradox, that she didn’t have any idea what she was doing. If she thought about it, she’d have no concept of where to go from where she was.

It was appropriate of the situation that she didn’t think on it. Her hand curled around him, as low as she could reach through bunched pants and the angle she sat at, and she slowly slid up from there, keeping fingers loosely curled.

For moments, or minutes, she couldn’t tell, she did very little else, listened to the sound of short bursts of air (controlled breaths turned to strained, not as level as before) and quietly memorized the strangely unique feel of him pressed against her palm. Eventually, one of his hands reached out to hers, covered her fingers and firmly pressed them tighter, changing her grip without a word or sound.

She found that more uncomfortable than the notion of sitting alone with him in a dimension was, but when he dropped his hand once more, it took only moments to decipher the difference (and why, potentially, it would be better) between the two methods. Strength was an inseparable part of shinobi life. The lighter touch she’d applied moments before…gentleness, weakness, and tenderness melded together in the world of the shinobi, on the battlefield like they were. She knew why he’d intervened, even if he didn’t say a word on the matter.

_Tender_ wasn’t right at all.

She was able to move slightly differently with the new grip, though, she felt…grounded. Which didn’t make any sense, considering somewhere she knew they were floating on nothing, knew it from when she’d been trapped in here and waiting before. That sort of knowledge wasn’t really relevant though, and was easy to brush aside as she felt a slight tremble run through him when she brushed her thumb a certain way over his head.

The sound she heard must have been her own intake of breath, because it was too light and too high to be his, but she didn’t remember taking it. She tried again, to be sure, brushing her thumb the way she had, and felt that certain tremble again. No intake of air this time, but she could feel instinctively the way her own breath had sped up like his.

That was perfectly natural, though.

Her grip was tight, even tighter than he indicated, as she walked a tight line between control and forcing herself to forget the world outside the dimension they hid in, but she moved her hand slowly still, tugging on skin and then letting it slide through her fingers with determination that defied her heart rate and the heat in her cheeks.

She watched as his stomach danced in whatever silent effort he too struggled with, his own tightrope walk of control between whatever forces pulled at him that she didn’t bother to guess. The knots she’d released must have already been beginning to reform, as the hand that had previously covered hers now dug into the ground again, fingers curving sharply against the stone but leaving no mark yet.

She wasn’t focused on her effort as much as she was unfocused, unaware and willing to let the thrill of the moment take her where it willed, and so she shouldn’t have been surprise to be unaware of his own movements. She found herself startle slightly all the same when a slim hand appeared on her once more. A different hand in a different place this time.

For a moment, barely that, she hesitated, uncertain of the implication, long and thin fingers (fingers that had woven the jutsu that rained hell on the shinobi forces, shredded so many innocent lives without a single sign of mercy) pressed against her through her own coarse fabric (less coarse than his, but stronger) where she hadn’t expected. For a flash it seemed like she should object, draw a line in very nearly hypocritical sand.

It faded away like the flashing of a bulb, and she let her knees fall apart slightly, allowing him to better press in against her.

Were there anyone else in their world, they might mistake the arms crossed behind and around each other’s back (hers for support, and his to touch) for an embrace of some sort, the action of lovers or friends. Certainly not of enemies.

She tightened her grip slightly and then loosened it, experimenting with when to hold more firmly and when to relax to receive the most positive reactions from him. She found a certain point not quite midway that would make him shudder just slightly, cause his chest to contract almost as if he struggled with a spasm of pain there. His own hands weren’t calloused enough to be a ninja’s hands. When they slid against her skin, slipped beneath the hem of her clothes to press hard on sensitive flesh, they were much too soft, much too flawless to be a shinobi’s hand.

The conflict caused her to gasp more sharply than she should have.

His hips no longer remained still as she moved, shifted under her hand in a rhythm that didn’t seem to quite fit as opposite. She didn’t recognize what it was, couldn’t devote enough attention to figuring it out. It was best she couldn’t, because she wasn’t supposed to be able to.

In the stark silence of the realm around them, the sound of his half-formed groans, of the sharp and irregular gasps from one or both of them didn’t echo. She felt flushed and warm like the air of the empty, cold realm had found a way to heat itself, and perhaps it had, because beads of sweat had managed to re-form on his torso, meandering curious paths through swells and valleys as they dragged down his chest to his stomach and away.

She’d lost track at some point where was appropriate to sit, or what was comfortable. She could hear the rushing of his blood as loudly as her own in her ear, pressed as it was to his shoulder, and when she cared to look up (as brief and rare as it was) from where her hand moved, she could no longer track his expression even if she wanted to. All that remained in her line of sight was the curve of his jaw and the arch of his neck, shoulder muscles straining as he moved.

He must not have stayed that way always, but she didn’t watch him long enough to tell. She watched the way his legs and hips moved instead, lost track of keeping track, felt the strange and unnatural smoothness of his fingers pressing and pinching in a method and pattern she couldn’t summon up the focus to identify.

It would have been a very convenient thing, both of them reaching the place they were both struggling toward at the same time. It would have been tidy and easy to brush off and resume their work, and it might even have been something symbolic of teamwork.

They hadn’t worked as a team long enough to be symmetrical.

She didn’t think that she closed her eyes, but she didn’t see anything, either. She felt, more than anything else. Felt him still in her hand, felt the way he shuddered and strained, roughly gasped and groaned without pretense of control or focus, felt a strange and not-right finger pad pressing against her nerve too hard, too precise, uncomfortable and painful even as it _wasn’t_ , and felt chemicals she could name but didn’t flood through her in a pattern she knew full well was impossible but accepted anyway.

She felt cold again, just before she felt hot, and for a few moments that felt briefly like forever she didn’t have any words for what she felt.

In the haze that followed, she was aware that his hand slipped free of her to grip the ground behind her instead, was aware exactly what had happened, and the inconvenience that they were an asymmetrical team.

She was vaguely aware, as her focus returned to her somewhat, and she stared down at the hand that had stilled in her own moment of mindlessness, that if she stopped now…it would be an action accepted without a word.

Perhaps that was an irrational thought, certainly a selfish one, that she could stop, now that she’d reached some form of temporary satisfaction, an ability to set aside the conflict in her mind with the buzzing of pleasure and freshened chakra, and leave things at that.

He shivered in place, still panting, skin darker than she’d ever seen it, flushed to an almost healthy tone, stomach still twitching in anticipation, or, perhaps, dread. She didn’t read his face to see. It was best that she didn’t, she thought.

She squeezed her hand again, finally, and she couldn’t tell if the tormented groan was relieved or disappointed.

They didn’t have much more time, and so her movements were efficient, gliding upward, then jerking upward, following the motions she’d learned garnered the strongest reactions, and it wasn’t long before he’d fallen back onto his elbows, hips jerking uncontrolled when she moved. She thought that, perhaps, he might have needed the excuse to forget just how unlikely their victory would be even more than she thought she did.

She stared at his stomach, rather than anything else.

In the absolute silence of the world they’d trapped themselves in, she could just make out that he spoke a word, his voice barely traveling to her. The word itself, she could make no sense of, only that it was _a_ word of some sort, unintelligible, strangled and desperate.

She felt a pulse of heat against her fingers, and watched with some small fascination as dull, almost colorless fluid arched (fortunately, for what they needed to do soon) past where his clothes had bunched up and slid down somewhat. She quickly readjusted herself then to cup her free hand over him, catching each ensuing release in her unused palm rather than allow it to eventually dribble or land where it shouldn’t.

The droplet of chakra she’d earned went to her hand, ensuring that what collected on her own hand wouldn’t drip or run back down onto him, as she carefully held herself there, balancing to her best an effort to allow him as much of a release of frustration as she could without causing over-stimulation.

She had no practical experience to know the line, so she erred on the side of caution and released him while he was still heavily gasping for air.

Quietly, efficiently, she reached in her pocket with her cleaner hand for a tissue, and wiped herself clean and dry. She set the crumpled tissues on the ground then, and quickly reached back down to fix his clothing again. Her movements were deft and as efficient as the cleaning of her hands and fingers had been: to linger or spend any more time doing so would be to cross a line that neither of them had or wanted to cross.

She could have moved further away, but the reason she’d moved close in the first place held true, and so she chose to stare out at the endlessness instead, listening to the way his breathing slowly returned to normal, and watching the color drain away from his skin once more.

She wasn’t surprised to see it fade back to deathly pale so quickly, though. It was only a droplet, after all.

The silence that settled over the world at the brink of oblivion remained unbroken until the darkness finally melted away into sunlight and sand again.

Kaguya, and Naruto, were gone.


End file.
